


Inked Blue Name

by Hatswithpompoms



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Greek Religion & Lore Fusion, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fate & Destiny, Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, One-Sided Relationship, POV First Person, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 09:40:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29822994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hatswithpompoms/pseuds/Hatswithpompoms
Summary: Plenty of the names in the book are blue, but this one is different, this one seems to glow on the page, so its place in the tangled mess of ink can be tracked easily through the colours. So that is what I, Castiel, do. I sit, wait, and watch the name.Castiel is one of the three angels in charge of human's lives, fates and deaths. Every day Castiel sits in their room and waits until he is needed. He sits and watches the life of a bright blue name as it grows.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Kudos: 3





	Inked Blue Name

_It is quiet. It has always been quiet here. We talked, once, but eventually we ran out of things to say. We could start again, but there would be no point in it, sooner or later we would lapse once more into this state of quiet. The only sound is the fluttering of pages turning and the scritch-scratch of quills on paper. There is a small splash as the quill is dipped in ink. Then one of the 7 books is opened and the pages sough like wind. Then the rhythmic scratch of the quill as it moves across the page, spelling out words in coloured ink. The sounds repeat themselves. Over and over, never stopping. They are the sounds that fill our existence._

_Pravuil has finished an ink. Her hands move the liquid gently between fingers as she places it in an inkwell and hands it to Raguel. Raguel roles the quill in her fingers, dips it in the ink and takes a book. It is thick and deep orange, with massive gold clasps that click as she opens it on a page and hands the ink, quill, and book back to Pravuil. She places the book down and dips the quill in the ink. The words form in looping script, spelling out another name in the thousands that rest in the pages. The book is placed on its lectern, and Pravuil begins on a new ink. But there is something different about this ink. It is blue. No, plenty of the names in this book are blue, but this one is different, this one seems to glow on the page, so its place in the tangled mess of ink can be tracked easily through the colours. So that is what I, Castiel, do. I sit, wait, and watch the name._

The baby is beautiful. It’s not just me that thinks this. Everyone in the small hospital is crowded round him and is expressing the same sentiment. In the next few weeks, I’ve no doubt that his parents will hear those words everywhere they go. Although people tend to do that around babies, so perhaps I’m exaggerating. Soon most of the admirers leave and the small family of three sits in peace. His parents murmur over his head with flushed cheeks and secret smiles. He watches with unblinking eyes and grasps onto the fringes of his blanket. It’s not just that he’s a beautiful baby, all babies are beautiful to an extent. There’s something else, nothing defined yet but it’s there. I know he will grow to be great. His life will be brilliant, all the way to its end.

4 years later and he’s grown older, like most things do. He’s making cookies with his mother in the kitchen. She cracks an egg and the yolk spills into the dough. A piece of shell falls in. He gets down from his stool and runs to the drawer where the forks are kept. His green eyes are twinkling and bright as he clambers back onto the stool, loudly proclaiming that he will retrieve the eggshell from the mixture. Everything is a mission to him, taken with the kind of earnest seriousness only a child can manage. As he does it, he explains loudly to his brother why you cannot have any eggshell in cookie dough. He tells him this like it's some life saving advice that his brother must remember for future use. Sam, for that is his brother’s name, gurgles against his mother’s shoulder and grabs her hair. He frowns at the lack of attention and repeats his lecture, this time explaining in great detail, all of the reasons there should be no eggshell in a mixture, and why it is vital this information is remembered. Most of his reasons are not true, but still, I listen to them all, until Mary reminds him that they have cookies to finish and that Sam has plenty of time to hear about eggshells. I watch them until the cookies are done and cooling on a rack.

_The quill races across sheet after sheet of paper. We are still working today. Christmas is an important holiday for us, but it is not a reason to stop. We may think a little more of the Son of God, but we do not celebrate. Frivolities and flourishes are beyond us. Twisted and tangled expressions of life are pointless to us. The world here is simple like scissors. They only have one purpose: to cut. They are bound by certainty, knowing that this is their job, and it is all they can do. We do not erase names as often as we write them. We used to do it more, but now the knife often lies still for a long time, relatively speaking. There are still millions erased every day. The knife rests in my lap, and it is my job, to erase the names. Today, I cut through twelve at once. 12 deaths. Why does not matter, neither does where. All that matters is cutting the right ones and that is easy. I am not my predecessor. I bring the scissors down, right through their names. The paper knits together afterwards, blank and waiting. We keep on working._

Panting desperate breaths. He is running in the dark, stumbling over roots and crashing through pushes. When he reaches a clearing with a little light he skids to a stop and turns to face the thing that is pursuing him. I wonder what it is, maybe it’s a pagan? I would like it if it were one of them, for obvious reasons. It’s not a pagan. If I am honest, I do not know what exactly it is. I watch as it charges at him with a frothing mouth and a savage snarl. He raises the gun and shoots. Once. Another time. The shots ring out like echoes in the woods, but it keeps coming, undeterred. Under his breath he mutters and his hands clench, white over the metal of the weapon. Then his father comes out of nowhere and slices its head in one blow. Blood splatters over his face, and there is the tiniest movement of relief before he straightens. I wonder how old he is. This tiny soldier before me. The first thing he does once they are sure that its dead is ask if they will make it back to his brother that night. I watch them trudge back to the car and framed by these massive woods he seems small, fragile. Like the shell of the egg lifetimes ago.

_Today, like all days, is busy for Pravuil. We have written several new names today, in a variety of colours. Each one is written where another name has been erased, a new colour in the elaborate pattern of names. We work like a symphony of music, all perfectly in conjunction with each other with no one out of time. There are no tangles, no mistakes. At least not in recent years. Far back, hidden underneath pages and pages of script there is one scar. It is not that big of a mistake, but it is one, nonetheless. I remember when the chaos when it happened, the angel before me who had fallen like a dying star, and the cold scissors as they made their debut in my hands. That time it was the pagans’ fault, which was the true reason he fell. But that was in the past, and there it will stay. I turn instead to what has now become my pastime. Watching the white name as it spreads through the book. He and another are now inseparable. Brilliant blue and red-green, entwined together. To follow one is to follow the other. I continue to watch them because there is nothing else to do._

Him and his brother are eating. They sit across from each other in a booth. He’s eating a massive bacon cheeseburger, and Sam is watching disgusted as he stuffs massive bites into his mouth. His brother is taller than him now, a giant of a man who towers over everyone he meets. They seem to argue constantly. Right now, it’s about healthy food, and how a bacon cheeseburger is not a healthy food. He isn’t disagreeing, and I think he knows. I also think he doesn’t care, because he doesn’t think he’ll live to an age where things like heart attacks matter. They’ve moved on now, Sam realising he was fighting a losing battle. The argument continues though, about one thing or another, but it doesn’t really matter to me. Sam makes him smile, and that is really what’s important. They’ve been looking for their father for months now.

He doesn’t run to his father anymore. He hunts monsters on his own. That is still what he does, saving people hunting things. That’s what they’re going to do now, as he gathers up his burger in a napkin and winks goodbye to the waitress. I ignore her and follow them out. Sam watches him deny liking the song playing in the diner with a fond expression I recognise in my own expression. I am fond of him. When did I become fond? Become _attached?_ I should not be attached. The thought follows me home. Like a ball on a red string, it bounces as I go and comes up every so often in my meandering mind. Each time bringing with its feelings of fear, anxiety, and guilt. I am attached. I cannot be attached. Individuals are not supposed to matter in the grand scheme of things.

_The blue and red-green are now inseparable as they forge an erratic pattern through the pages. One’s time is shorter than the other. Even now the ink begins to fade. But I don’t have much time to watch today. Today we are busy. I cut out the names. Fifty at once. They vanish, inches away from my blue name’s journey. I feel slightly sick as the quill scratches and the pages rustle as if nothing has happened. I cut another hundred. The pages still look perfect. My mass executions have never changed that. It only takes one death to destroy our work, because it’s not about how many, it’s about which colour you kill. One death is all it takes. One death that was the consequence of wine, sweet words, and an angel who fell in fire._

The beep is steady, and far too intimidating to use a word as innocuous as beep. It is a countdown, a warning that the danger is not over. He will not die. I know this. It has happened before, been reversed before I made the final move. But his father’s ink grows pale, and I know that before this day is gone, he will be an orphan. I do not care. They seal the deal with a kiss, and then the deed is done. John Winchester is dead. He cries, and I suppose I do care a little. This is hurting him after all. Soon those tears will shed for another, in a different place, and a different deal will be made. I do not think about what will happen a year after that. 

_With every day we write my bright blue name grows paler; I don’t take my eyes of it now. Never completely. I think they know that I’m watching it, they’re watching me. Nobody mentions it. They continue like it doesn’t matter, and so do I. Because then I can pretend that he’s not important. That he does not matter. There are 7 billion names; I can live without this one._

The hounds are coming. I can hear the howling in the distance. Once they get close enough, I will see them as well. There is no beeping to herald his death here, but I can almost sense it, like a timer running down. He is sweating, his eyes are darting from windows to doors, and he’s far jumpier than usual. I know what this looks like and I’ve seen it happen countless times, but this is different. His brother makes a joke, and he smiles slightly. Sam’s voice is hushed, like he’s at a funeral. Everyone is quiet around him now, out of respect for the dead to be. I leave. I don’t want to be here.

_There are minutes left for the ink at best. Even as he dies, he makes the other names look dull. I want to take him from the page. I want to cradle him safe beside me and never let go. But the story my sisters have written demands that he be cut._

He has minutes left and everybody knows. The hellhounds are outside baying for blood. Preparations are made. One last stand against fate. Everyone who loves him is there. I am there. It turns out I do want to see this after all. Or perhaps I just can’t stay away.

_The pages rustle loudly. The quills scratch. It seems almost malevolent, their constant noise. Like the beeping once did they remind me of what is coming. How could I ever have thought it was quiet here?_

He hands his gun to Sam and he takes it without a word.

_My footsteps are out of time with the others. Unsteady and slow. Every movement feels tight and strained. I don’t want to be the one to put his flame out. The ink flickers desperately in front of the raised scissors. Beside me, my sisters continue writing and reading, the pages continue rustling. There should be a moment of silence at a time like this. There should be stillness. I tighten my hands around the cruel metal._

Death comes to everyone alike, and not even the gods can fend it away from a man they love.

But it does not have to come to him now. I will not let it. The scissors close and I bring the axe down on Sam instead. His life for Dean’s. For a second there is silence. Then all I hear is screaming. It tears through me. I don’t hear the chaos around me or the chaos around him. All I can hear is that desperate, awful sound. His wails are not constant. They rise and fall with his gasps of breath and I cling to that fact. He’s breathing. He’s alive. In the book my blue name flares in time to his crying in a brilliant blue panic. Beside it, the red-green of his brother is slashed in two, dead before his time. Around me my sisters are working like they haven’t in centuries. Names are being written; others removed. My hands are moved for me, cutting off people who now must die. I let them, numbly. Absorbed in his screams.

It takes hours to fix the chaos. By the time we are done he’s stopped screaming. The place has the sound of death again, only this time it’s not his. They have burned his body and he is sitting, staring at pile of ashes. His eyes are a doused fire. They are muddy and dark, and I realise I have saved no one. He is not alive after all. Life is all in the mind and the joy. When he goes home, the memories will drive him away. When he eats, their arguments about burgers will poison the taste. The empty space where he should be will overtake the gift of life that I have given him. He will exist for the rest of his life in sorrow. There is a reason Admetus chose to live a short life, and I should have remembered that.

I should have remembered what happened to my predecessor, the story brings a lesson. And now I am living it out for a second time. A reminder of why disobeying the plan should never even be considered. I am not going to fall like he did. There is a war coming, we need everyone possible. There will still be punishment, of course, but not like there was before. 

_I sit at my new station, the scissors heavy in my hands. The angel before me had failed, let his emotions get the best of him. So, they cast him out, made him fall. I will not make the same mistakes. I sit, waiting to be needed. A glowing blue name catches my eye. It stands out on the parchment, bright in the dull colours. There is nothing much else to do, so I watch it, this curious blue name._

This man is broken. Barely alive. But there is something about him. Something absolutely captivating.

**Author's Note:**

> This was very loosely inspired by the ancient Greek story of Alkestis and Admetus.  
> I hope you enjoyed reading it. Comments and kudos are always appreciated.


End file.
